Adventures of an Artificer: Bethroot Cadash
by thievinghippo
Summary: Stories, prompt fics and drabbles involving Bethroot Cadash, rogue. Blackwall/Cadash will be the focus, but others will show up occasionally.
1. A Root by Any Other Name

You're curious about the name, aren't you? Of course you are. If I had a galleon for every time someone asked me about my name I could buy my way into the noble caste in Orzammar and retire in style.

Here's the story. My mother got herself knocked up. No big deal, happens every day to casteless dwarves. Most women get rid of the baby or hope it's the right sex so they can move up in rank.

My mum? She decides having a kid is the best thing to ever happen to her. So much so that she decides she's not willing to risk having a baby in Orzammar and takes every copper she's ever earned and smuggles herself out. The gold wasn't enough, so she agreed to work for the Carta until her debts were paid off.

She's always had a knack for healing, so they sent her to work with an old apostate who patched up any of the poor fighters who somehow managed to make it back to base alive. But let me come back to that.

So she's in the Marches, and decides she wants to make things easy on her kid by giving her a human name. Maybe Mum thought it would make people like me more or I'd do better in trade, I don't know. And she's not around anymore for me to ask.

There was a trend when I was born, I guess, where women named their daughters after flowers and plants. So everywhere my mum looked there was a 'Rose' or a 'Lily' or a 'Poppy.' And my mum decides there and then that she wants to do the same with her brat.

Then one day, a kid comes into the warehouse. Little dwarven boy who the Carta used to run messages once in a while. No parents that anyone knows about. He's miserable and my mum realizes he's pretty damn sick.

The mage is nowhere to be found, so she does whatever she can think of to keep this kid alive until he's back. And one of the main things she does is mix the herb Bethroot with milk and makes him drink the whole damn thing.

A couple of hours later, the mage came back to the warehouse and did his magic, and the boy was right as rain. But the mage told my mum that she saved his life, that if she hadn't worked as hard as she did, he would have died.

Right chuffed my mum was, and two days later, she went into labor and had a daughter. A daughter who would have been branded casteless just like her mother if they hadn't left Orzammar.

She told me once that the moment they put me in her arms, she knew I couldn't have any other name. My namesake saved a life once. My mum hoped my name would inspire me to do the same.

For a while I was determined to prove her wrong, and I broke her heart, running with the Carta, not caring who got hurt as long as I got my gold. Took losing all I had worked for to realize I actually didn't have anything to lose but instead everything to gain.

And now the Inquisition is giving me a chance to finally make my mum proud.


	2. Follow the Leader

She looks exactly like he remembers.

Her face, the Herald's face, has haunted his dreams since the day he watched her die, three hundred and eighty-one days ago. The Herald is dead, of this is he sure, yet she stands in front of him, her blue eyes piercing his soul, and says it isn't so.

He wants to believe. He wants it so badly he bites his tongue to keep himself from reaching out and feeling her hand under his. She is not for the likes of _him_, he remembers this now, the taste of copper on his lips.

But then it's her hand that reaches out, fingers curled just so as she places her hand on his forearm. He twitches at her touch and jerks his arm away as she apologizes for not being there. Yet he would not have her here in this world, this world of red lyrium and lies, where nothing is real, not even time.

He is a champion, a protector, and Maker help him, he would protect her from this.

She keeps speaking and her voice is a balm, easing its way into his bones. His eyes close as he listens to what she is offering. The last year could be erased. Everything he has been forced to do in The Elder One's name as he hoped for escape, some way to make things right… And now she tells him he can go back, and this past year will never have existed. It doesn't seem possible, yet he hears the truth in her voice.

He chooses to believe. He trusts the Herald. Trusts her.

She will help him chisel away the worst parts of himself until only his true self remains.

_You are who you choose to follow._

He is _Blackwall_. Not Rainier.

And he is hers. She leads and he follows, off to battle the very essence of time itself.

#

He looks nothing like she remembers.

The man in front of her is broken. Certainly not the same one she called oddly charming only a few days ago. Red lyrium radiates from his skin and clouds his blue-grey eyes and for the first time since she fell out of the Fade she feels rage. Oh she had moments of anger before, but nothing like the coil of smoke slithering through her belly, demanding she make The Elder One pay.

Then find a safe place for her friend to rest.

But there is no time for rest as they find him armor to wear and a sword to wield. She is the one who discovers a shield and holds it up for him as if in offering. As he puts his forearm through the enarmes, she doesn't imagine how his shoulders straighten, like he's been given purpose again at last.

They fight through Redcliffe. Alexius is killed. The Elder one arrives.

Time. There's never enough in the end. Her heart constricts, realizing what they must do, what he must do. She meets his steady gaze and with one look, they promise each other the world. One breath and they've placed their lives in each other's hands.

And then he dies.

She wants to cry out as the demons pour through, bringing proof of his death. But as the magic cackles around her and she hears the familiar song of arrows being loosed, she finds her resolve and doesn't stray.

_There's a reason people have been following our Herald._

Less than a week has passed since he spoke those words to the Avvar. She had simply closed a passing rift, nothing special, she thought. But now another rift opens and she feels the power tingling in the palm of her hand, running down to the tips of her fingers.

Blackwall thinks she's someone worthy to follow.

And now she will show the world why.


	3. Offer Me

She sits in the ambassador's office, trying to concentrate on the paperwork in front of her. Instead her mind keeps wandering, remembering the evening prior, her certainty Blackwall would arrive in her quarters and her utter sense of relief when he finally did.

How could Josephine and Leliana expect her signature almost four dozen times over when all she wants to dwell on, is even with their difference in size, how perfectly her hips cradled his?

They didn't speak much this morning. Blackwall left early, concerned about her reputation if too many people saw him leaving her quarters. She wanted to tell him it didn't matter, she cares for him and will happily share that with the world, but worries he wants to be a secret instead.

A messenger enters as Bethroot stares at the parchment as she signs her name once again.

"Josephine, do you have a secret admirer?" Leliana says, her voice full of curiosity.

Bethroot looks up at that, and sees the messenger is carrying a small bouquet of flowers. But instead of Josephine, the messenger walks over to her and bows low. He hands her the flowers and says, "From the Warden, your Worship."

The flowers smell of spring and possibilities and as she buries her nose in them, she hears Josephine's delighted clap of her hands but misses the shadow that falls on Leliana's face.

#

She hasn't let an arrow loose in three days.

Bethroot skips down the stairs of the keep, feeling like a bird experiencing flight for the first time. She has two full hours of freedom before she needs to meet Cullen to discuss the troops, and she knows exactly what to do with them.

The training yard is packed today, full of both new recruits and veterans alike. The Grey Wardens staying at Skyhold are holding a clinic of sorts. Somewhere among them is Blackwall. She's been surprised he hasn't been more friendly towards the Grey Wardens, but supposes there's a reason he calls himself a loner.

Stopping outside the small room where she and her companions keep their gear at Skyhold, Bethroot stretches her arms high over her head, trying to dislodge the feeling of disuse. But then she steps inside and looks towards her things.

Her eyes narrow, seeing some sort of mark around the top of her favorite quiver. It's a simple quiver, leather over a wooden frame, with a wooden lip to keep the shape. She picks it up and realizes that it's not a mark at all, but words carved around the edge.

_Atrast nal tunsha_

"May you always find your way in the dark," Bethroot whispers, thinking how she taught Blackwall the dwarven phase a week ago, explaining how her mother would say that to her each time Bethroot left on Carta business.

She hugs the quiver to her close. "I have, Mam. I finally have."

#

Blackwall turns away, still in chains, and Bethroot tries to get her heart to stop stammering.

Too many people are staring, watching the spectacle she's created. If she could have only stayed in her damn chair, they could have had their first reconciliation in private.

But her eyes are on his back as a guard steps forward, ready to remove the cuffs. Within moments, it's done and Blackwall rubs his wrists, saying something to the guard she can't hear over the crowd.

She steps off the platform, not wanting to be elevated above anyone any longer. He walks up to her then, his face still open and raw. "I meant it," he says, leaning forward and kissing her brow. "Forever in your hands."

And he slips her the key that gave him his freedom.


	4. Scars

She should be sleeping.

Beside her, Blackwall is on his back, breathing slowly and evenly, as only those deep in slumber can. Bethroot is propped up on her side, her fingers lightly running over his chest.

It's only their second night together and her first chance to study him closely. Last night, between exhaustion from traveling back from the Storm Coast and nerves, hoping and wondering if Blackwall would say anything, she fell asleep almost immediately after their passions were spent.

He promised answers from their journey, but the trip only left her with more questions. The badge was key; she saw him take it out and stare at it more than once on the wagon ride back to Skyhold. But she could ponder the mystery later. Right now, she just wanted to look.

Even after sharing plenty of campsites and watching him spar and train over the past six months, Bethroot had never seen him without a shirt until last night. Her hand drifts lower, sliding over his belly, and curling her fingers through his soft chest hair. He's not as lean as some of the other humans she's seen shirtless; a few of her soldiers looked for any excuse not to wear a shirt. But he's plenty strong underneath it all, and that's all that matters.

A patchwork of scars decorate the right side of his torso, shoulder and arm included. She wonders the story behind them. She wonders how soon she'll have the right to ask and find out.

Blackwall jerks his head suddenly and makes a small noise which comes from the back of his throat. He shakes his head, eyes closed tight, and Bethroot holds her breath as she continues to lightly stroke his stomach.

He stills not long after and Bethroot lets out her breath, sure he's awake. She says nothing, in case she's wrong. He deserves his rest.

"That feels nice," Blackwall mutters, his eyes still closed.

Bethroot jerks her hand away, but he catches it and puts it back on his stomach. "I thought you were sleeping," she says, keeping her voice soft, not wanting to break the magic of her quarters, with the crackling fire and the autumn wind breezing through the open balcony doors, as she starts up the caress again.

"Were you watching me sleep?" he asks, brow furrowing slightly as he opens his eyes. There's a raspiness in his voice that makes her curl up to him closer. She nods and he raises a hand, dragging a knuckle across her cheek. "You need your rest, my lady. Don't waste your time staring at me."

"You were moving," Bethroot says, hearing the shyness in her voice. Why is this so hard to ask about? "Were… were you dreaming?"

A look she doesn't recognize crosses his face. After six months of friendship, she thought she had a handle on most of his moods. Not all of them, though. He's such a private man and offers so little about himself, not even his given name.

"I was."

She rests her chin on his chest and the words come out before she can stop herself. "What's it like?" she asks, more eagerly than she'd hope. "Dreaming?"

"Thought you dreamt once," Blackwall says, running his hand through her hair, "with Solas."

"True," she concedes, remembering the strangeness of being in Haven yet not being there. Even after all of Dagna's questions about the experience, she couldn't quite describe it. Perhaps dwarves just truly weren't meant to dream. "But I didn't realize it was a dream until I woke up."

A silence settles over them and Bethroot resigns herself to yet another question unanswered. There is so much she wants to learn about him, yet so much he won't say. She worries she'll start to fill in the empty spaces with ideas of her own. If she does, will he still be the man she cares for now or just a construct in her head?

He told her once, "it's what you do and how you do it that's important." But what happens if that's not enough? Everyone has a foundation of which their lives are built. The past shapes them all, like chisel against stone, even if one refuses to look back.

She knows from their previous conversations, she figures he's either a soldier turned criminal or criminal turned soldier. Deciding which tale she prefers isn't easy, so she'll wait until he lets something slip, handing her a clue which she weaves into the tapestry of everything she's learned.

Bethroot is an archer. Patience is key; she doesn't need to know everything at once as long as her target is getting closer to her mark. Someday she'll have her answers and for now, that's enough.

"Not all dreams are good, you know," he says, darkness clouding his voice.

"You had a nightmare?" she asks.

He nods and brings her hand up to his lips, kissing the inside of her wrist. It's so tempting to ask for more details, more something, more anything, just _more_. But she doesn't want to appear greedy.

"I'd meet you there in the Fade if I could," she says, an invitation if he'd like to talk more, as she leans forward and rests her hand on his shoulder, tracing the scars. Her lips brush his; she meant it to be more of a peck, for comfort, but Blackwall has different ideas.

He kisses her hard and deep, waking up every nerve in her body. But even as she lets herself be pushed onto her back, she's pleased with his sudden insistence not to speak. It tells her a story without words. Blackwall has handed her another thread for her tapestry.

He has more than just the scars on his body. And now she's most curious about the ones she cannot see.


	5. Kissing

Bethroot slips under his arm and stands between Blackwall and his workbench. He looks down at her with an amused smile on his face, one which causes her stomach to jumble up a bit. Part of her is still in a daze, still can't quite believe she has this right, to walk up to him and casually take his hand or ask for a kiss. Granted, it's only been a few days, but to finally know how his lips feel against hers after she wanted to know for so long, pleases her more than she can say.

"My lady?" he asks, putting down his wood cutting tools.

She glances at the workbench and Blackwall takes the hint, clearing it a bit, before grabbing her by the hips and lifting her up. Now sitting on the workbench, they can see eye to eye, which is much more comfortable for them both.

"I want to practice kissing," she announces, wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

Tomorrow they leave for Crestwood, to meet Hawke's Warden friend. If it's who she thinks it is… Well, Bethroot will try not to be too giddy, but to meet the lover of the Hero of Ferelden…

This is their last chance for a bit of kissing until they reach camp tomorrow; they've decided not to share a bed tonight, both wanting a good night's sleep before traveling. Not that Bethroot hasn't slept well the past two nights, lying next to Blackwall. They've simply not slept as much as they should.

Blackwall takes a step closer so their bodies are flush. "I wasn't aware kissing was something that needed practicing," he says, bringing his hand to her cheek.

Bethroot leans into his palm and gives him a smile. Tilting her head, she takes her thumbs and lifts Blackwall's carefully parted moustache, fully exposing his upper lip. "I need to figure out how to kiss more lip and less moustache," she says before leaning forward and pecking him on the lips.

"You've never kissed a man with a proper moustache before?" Blackwall asks, raising his brow. She can hear a teasing lilt and is grateful for it.

"I'm a dwarf, of course I have," she says with a laugh. "But none like yours. Orlesian style isn't very popular among dwarves."

"How'd you know it's Orlesian?"

"Isn't it?" Bethroot asks. "Leliana made a comment about it once."

Blackwall nods slowly and Bethroot goes back to studying the situation. "See," she says slowly, bringing her lips just a whisper away from his, "when we kiss like this…" Bethroot captures his lower lip between hers and sucks gently as Blackwall puts his hands on her ass, bringing her even closer to him. His beard feels soft against her chin while his moustache brushes her cheeks.

She ends the kiss but barely moves. "When we kiss like that, I'm not kissing your moustache." Bethroot keeps her voice low, and is pleased to see that she has his complete and utter attention. "But when we kiss like this…"

Raising her head just a fraction, she offers her lower lip to Blackwall, who immediately presses it between his own two lips. But the soft scrape of his teeth against her lower lip is offset by his moustache hair tickling her upper lip.

Bethroot breaks off the kiss, with the intention of figuring out how to sneak her lips underneath his moustache and against his lips. But before she has the chance, Blackwall's kissing her neck. She gives herself just a moment to revel in being held, the way she can feel the rise and fall of his chest as he maps out her neck with his lips, the way his palms rub small circles into her ass and the way his beard feels soft and smooth against her skin.

She runs her fingers through his hair and feels him shiver against her as she drags them along his scalp. "We're supposed to be practicing kissing," Bethroot says, her voice a quiet puff of air against his ear.

His chuckle runs through his chest, and Bethroot is caught off guard as he kisses her lips again. "Getting ahead of myself, I see," he says, his eyes full of warmth.

Leaning forward, she kisses him, but angles her head just so, so her lips go underneath his moustache instead of over it. Then she's able to apply as much or little pressure as she wants. She smiles against his mouth, pleased to have discovered the secret.

"You seem pleased," he whispers, their lips still slightly brushing.

"I am," she says, her fingers ghosting along the tender flesh under his chin where his beard ended. "I think I've figured it out."

"That's it, then?" Blackwall says, one palm sliding up her back. "A few kisses and you think you've mastered the art?" Bethroot starts to protest but he holds up a finger to her lips. "How many times have you loosed an arrow to hone your skills? Surely this deserves just as much work and attention."

Bethroot lets out a laugh as she leans forward, pressing their lips together. He's right, of course. Kissing deserved just as much practice.

And as he parts her lips with his tongue, she decides kissing him might even deserve _more. _


	6. Rising Tide

"I've been thinking, my lady," Blackwall says, his voice low. Perhaps she imagines it, but Bethroot thinks she hears a slight emphasis on the word _my_ which thrills her to no end. "Your given name, it's abit of a handful."

"Thank my mother for that," Bethroot says,putting her hand on top of his, which is resting on her stomach. They're a day out of Skyhold on the way to Crestwood and sharing a tent for the first time tonight. It's their first real acknowledgment to the rest of the Inquisition that they're in a relationship and Bethroot hopes the inevitable whispers and rumors aren't too awful to deal with. But they'll manage, she's sure of it.

She's laying on her back with Blackwall on his side next to her, letting her use his arm as a pillow. With her free hand, she pulls up his gambeson; he placed it on top of her blanket when she shivered from the cold not too long ago, to use for extra warmth. It smells like him, like sweat and wood and oil, all comforting scents.

His lips press against her temple and she squeezes his hand. "Do you think," he says before kissing her cheek this time, "I could give you a pet name? For when we're alone?"

Hope radiates throughout her body and Bethroot needs to bite her lip from grinning. Maybe she'll finally get the answer to the one question she's more curious about than any other: his given name. Blackwall can keep his secrets; she knows he can't tell her everything, for the Warden's protection and quite possibly his own, depending on his past. She's been around enough criminals to understand the whole story can never be revealed completely. But this one simple bit of knowledge is what she craves more than anything. And if he wants to call her by a pet name what would be more reasonable than to call him by his given one?

Somehow her voice sounds calm as she answers. "What were you thinking?"

"Well, Beth is too obvious and Root's not really what I'm looking for," Blackwall says, laughter in his voice. But then he grows quiet. She looks up and meets his eye. There's a tenderness in them that makes her heart flutter, as silly as an expression that is, it's true. Somehow, when he looks at her like that, it's impossible to believe that he hasn't always been there, a part of her life, when they've only known each other for seven months.

"Can't be obvious, now, can we?" Bethroot says with a smile.

"No, I suppose we can't," he says. "I thought perhaps Bethy would work."

He moves his hand from her belly up to her face. But Bethroot catches his hand and brings it to her lips. _Bethy_, she thinks to herself. She's never really had a nickname before. Most people she worked with before the Inquisition called her by her surname, Cadash. And ever since the Conclave explosion, she's been Herald, or Inquisitor or more and more lately Your Worship which doesn't sit right with her at all.

This name could help ground her, help keep her from getting lost, or worse forgetting herself and just who she is. Already she feels unrecognizable from the _dwarva_ who hid below deck as the boat crossed the Waking Sea on the way to the Conclave. Bethroot wonders how long it will be before she has nothing left in common with that woman except her face.

"I like it," she says slowly, interlacing his fingers with her own, taking comfort in the strength she feels in his palm, yet at the same time, vividly remembering just how gentle he can be with those same hands of his.

"I'm glad," he says as he leans down and kisses her. Bethroot closes her eyes, enjoying the lack of urgency in the kiss, knowing it's far too quiet in camp to share anything more than a few kisses.

When the kiss ends, Bethroot moves to her side, so her back is flush against Blackwall's chest. It's now or never, she decides, so she takes a breath, all the way to her toes. "You know," she say, hoping he hears the hint of playfulness in her voice. "Your name is a bit of a handful as well."

The moment the words are out of her mouth she regrets them. She feels him tense up behind her and at once she knows she'll receive no response from him tonight and she wonders how much longer she'll have to wait for the answer to such a simple question. Her own fault, she knows. The warmth she felt at the thought of him calling her something other than _my lady_ made her take her eye off the target.

"Blackwall's what I prefer to be called," he says and Bethroot hears the strain in his voice and she wonders what could have possibly have occurred to make him want to disassociate with his given name so completely. And then she wonders just how long she'll have to wait before he trusts her enough to offer his name. And it will have to be him, for she won't ask again. She does have some sodding pride, after all.

She squeezes his hand, trying to show him there are no hard feelings, when in fact she's trying to keep them at bay. He trusts her with his life, she knows this and she hopes with his heart as well, or he would have never shown up in her quarters to begin with. A name seems almost an afterthought with those two things already balancing in her hands. At least that's what she tells herself. "I understand," she says and is pleased she hears no bitterness in her tone.

But the light has gone out of the evening somewhat. Thankfully, it's late, and when she relaxes against him, she feels him relax as well, placing his chin on the top of her head. "Let's get some sleep," she tells him.

She feels him tighten his arm around her waist and tries to simply enjoy his presence. "Good night, Bethy," he says.

Even if she didn't learn his given name, the pet name still causes her to smile. But when Bethroot says, "Good night, Blackwall," his surname lingers on her tongue and she finds it hard to ignore the gulf that's suddenly risen up between them.

_Patience,_ she tells herself, closing her eyes.

Every tide eventually falls.


	7. Pulse

"You look far too pleased with yourself," Bethroot says with a breathless laugh, holding out her hand.

Blackwall leans forward, taking her hand in his and brushing her knuckles with his lips, one by one, before running his hands up her thighs, feeling the soft hair on her legs and even softer skin under his palms. She's probably right, he most likely does look pleased, but why shouldn't he? They tried a new position tonight, at his suggestion, and now that they're done, she lays naked and sweaty before him and absolutely the most beautiful thing he's seen.

It's a simple idea. Bethroot on her back, ass flush with the edge of the mattress and Blackwall on his knees at the side of the bed. His hands could roam as he pushed into her and best of all, he could see her face when she comes. Any position that let him see her face, he likes. Sadly, most of the positions comfortable for them both, thanks to their size difference, didn't allow that.

She pulls herself up and Blackwall places both of his hands on her ass, bringing her close, feeling her breasts against his chest. The temptation is too strong and he kisses her gently, as she runs her hands up and down his sides, over the bit of belly Blackwall has given up hope of ever losing and works to make sure doesn't get any bigger instead. And then he realizes his knee is decidedly uncomfortable.

"I need to stand up," he says after breaking off their kiss.

"Knee bothering you?" Bethroot asks, scooting up to the head of the bed and pulling down the covers.

"A bit," Blackwall answers, walking over to the side table with the water basin. They're in his quarters off the training yard, which she seems to like more than her own sometimes. When he asked her about it once, Bethroot simply said, "Stairs." Blackwall understood. There are a ridiculous amount of stairs to get up to her quarters. He splashes a bit of water on his face before pouring a glass of water for them to share. "I'll try to remember to use a pillow next time."

When he turns back towards the bed, Bethroot is on her side, already under the covers. Blackwall had thought to walk around a little more, but the bed and his lady are far too tempting a sight, so he places the glass on the nightstand and joins Bethroot in bed, laying on his back with an arm behind his head. Feels good to be on the mattress again, he decides, and puts his free arm around Bethroot's shoulders.

"Please do," she says with a hint of a laugh. "I really liked that."

"I'm glad," Blackwall says, smiling to himself, knowing what he's about to say next will cause a reaction. "I'll have to thank Alistair."

And he's right. "Wait, what?" Bethroot asks, propping herself up on her elbow. "You spoke to Alistair, Warden Alistair, about us? You never speak to _anyone_ about our relationship."

She speaks mostly the truth, though he's discussed things with Sera a few times. Blackwall knows most of Skyhold speaks about them behind their backs, when they aren't starting rumors about her sleeping with half of Thedas, and he feels no need to give those people more ammunition. "I'll tell you the story if you'd like."

Bethroot nods and throws her arm over him, resting her chin on his chest. "Yes, please," she says.

Letting his fingers run up and down her back, Blackwall starts his tale. "It was a few nights ago. I was sitting at the bar in the tavern waiting for Sera. Alistair joined me," Blackwall says, not adding how uncomfortable he was when Alistair sat next to him. He hadn't been avoiding the Grey Warden, per say, but he certainly wasn't going out of his way to speak to the man. "We started talking, and it's not like we can discuss Grey Warden business in the middle of Herald's Rest so we had to find something else to talk about."

"And you talked about sex?" Bethroot asks, raising her brow.

"Not at first," Blackwall admits. "I needed a few rounds of ale before that happened. But we realized we had something in common." Bethroot tilts her head expectantly and Blackwall must admit he's having a bit of fun, drawing the story out. "The women in both of our lives are dwarven rogues."

"I hadn't even thought about that," Bethroot says. "You two do have a lot in common."

Blackwall forces the wave of guilt he always feels whenever someone says something like that out of his head and instead concentrates on Bethroot. "A bit," Blackwall says. "But all you have to do is say 'Hero of Ferelden' and Alistair could probably talk all night about her. I don't think I've ever seen a man so smitten." He stops speaking for a moment and pushes her hair behind her ear. "After we had enough ale, he offered up his ten years experience sleeping with a dwarven rogue."

"And you're not a man to throw away a resource," Bethroot say, pressing her lips against his chest. There's a slight smirk on her face when she looks up at him again. "So what did he say?"

"Told me about this position," Blackwall says, "and the easiest way in a tent, but we already had figured that one out." He wets his lips, feeling his stomach start to tie in knots over what he's about to do. "And he told me about one other thing."

They leave for Adamant Fortress in two days. The journey will be longer than others, since they'll be traveling with an entire company of soldiers instead of by wagon. It's taken longer than they hoped, arranging for Inquisition troops to march through Orlais. But with permission finally granted, the journey could begin. And Blackwall is worried. He's fought in campaigns like the one ahead, planned a few sieges himself, but Cullen never has led an army into battle, not like the one they'll be facing. Thankfully, the commander is humble enough to ask for advice and he and Blackwall have spent most of their evenings lately together in Cullen's office with his lieutenants, planning the attack.

They're as ready as they can be.

But that doesn't mean he's not scared for the woman next to him. The moment she steps in the fortress every Grey Warden under Erimond's control will want her dead. Blackwall will do everything he can to make sure they both make it out of there alive, but he's not able to prepare for every possibility.

There's a stirring in his heart and words buried there he's not quite ready to say out loud, so he keeps them close for now. Then when Alistair told him of a way dwarves show each other they care, Blackwall decided if he wasn't ready to tell her and least he could show her his feelings. But Alistair's dwarf is from Orzammar and Bethroot's from the surface and part of him worries she might not have any idea what the gesture will mean. Nerves threaten his decision, but before Blackwall can change his mind, he commits, like he did when he joined the Inquisition and when Bethroot spoke the words 'I'm not letting you go,' their first night together.

He's in deep, he knows that. And if this simple move will show her just how much he cares, then he'll do it. Bethroot looks at him, her face soft, with only a few candles on the nightstand to illuminate her features. His eyes don't leave hers as he places two fingers just below her jaw line, finding her pulse. But then Blackwall closes his eyes, focusing only on the feeling of Bethroot's beating heart beneath his fingertips. Alistair told him nothing calms him faster than feeling Brosca's pulse, the gesture of affection she taught him, which he passed onto Blackwall. Something about equating it with the pulse of lyrium in the Deep Roads. Alistair wasn't very specific and Blackwall didn't ask.

And Maker, if he isn't right.

Her heart rate is quick and the steady rhythm threatens to lull him off to sleep. As much as the idea of slumber appeals to Blackwall at the moment, he's more interested in Bethroot's reaction, so he opens his eyes.

She kisses him then, hard on the lips and when she pulls back, Bethroot's eyes are bright. As he goes to find her pulse again, she raises herself up and moves forward before laying her head down on his chest, her ear right over his own heart. Blackwall's sure his heart rate is all of the place, from sex and nerves and the way she's rubbing small circles into his palm with her thumb. "Alistair told you about this?" Bethroot says and he hears such a contentment in her voice he can't help but smile as he brings his fingers to her jaw.

"He did," Blackwall says, closing his eye.

"I'm glad," she says, her voice no more than a whisper.

He can think of nothing more to say, not when he's warm and sated with his lady listening to his heart beat while he feels her pulse beneath his fingertips. And within minutes, he hears Bethroot's heavy breathing, letting him know she's asleep and he joins her not long after.

They can worry about Adamant tomorrow.


	8. A Lady's Favor

She tries to shake out the cramp that's beginning to form in her hand. Ignoring the pain, Bethroot dips her quill into the ink and starts yet another thank you letter to a noble who contributed gold or weapons or men to the Inquisition's cause.

At least she's at her own desk in her own room. The rest of her bedroom furniture might be human sized, but the desk was built with _dwarva_ in mind. It's a relief to sit in a chair where her feet actually touch the floor and with a back curved for dwarven spines.

The door opens in the middle of a sentence, and Bethroot puts down her quill. A moment later, she sees Blackwall walking up the stairs. "Maker, what a day," he says as he crosses the room towards her. There's sweat in his beard and at his temples and while he looks exhausted, Bethroot notices a spring in his step and hears contentment in his voice.

"Fun training the recruits, I take it?" she says with a laugh, knowing training young soldiers is one of his favorite things to do. It's a marvel to watch, the way Blackwall balances discipline and motivation and how the recruits respond to him, wanting to do their best for the Warden.

"I'll turn them into soldiers somehow," he says.

Bethroot starts to stand to give him a kiss, but he beats her to it, getting down on one knee. She hasn't seen him in more than a day, thanks to a private dinner she had with some Ferelden nobles that ran much later than she expected the night before.

The kiss is soft and slow and tempting enough that Bethroot wants to ignore the letters she needs to write. But she pulls away, needing to finish them as quickly as she can.

"Work to do?" Blackwall asks, his gloved fingers sliding across her jaw.

"I'm sorry."

"Nothing to apologize for," Blackwall says, standing up. "I'll see if I can't finish up that duck for Cole."

She nods, pleased he has something to do while she works. The more seriously Thedas takes in Inquisition, the more work Bethroot needs to complete, it seems. Well, the sooner she finishes, the sooner she can relax for the evening.

"Bethy, what's this?"

Bethroot looks up and sees Blackwall standing in front of the sofa, holding her embroidery hoop. "Oh sod it," she mutters, standing up and walking over to him. She takes the hoop from his hands. "It's nothing."

"Doesn't look like nothing," Blackwall says, crossing his arms over his chest. "You hate sewing."

"You're right, I do," Bethroot says with her chin high. "That's why it's nothing."

"Bethy."

With a sigh, Bethroot shows him what she tried to hide. Nestled between the wooden hoops is a piece of white linen. "It's just practice," she says.

Blackwall takes the hoop from her hands. "Practice for what?" he asks.

"When we came back from Crestwood, you asked for a token, a favor of some sort, didn't you?" Bethroot says, not quite believing the shyness she hears in her own voice. "I asked Josephine for help. She showed me some stitches and I'm practicing."

He sits down on the sofa, holding the hoop and turning it over his in hands. "This is for me, then?" he asks. There's a softness to his voice that she's not heard before and causes her heart to flutter.

"Not this one, no," Bethroot says, putting her arm around Blackwall's shoulder and pulling herself up onto his lap. "Once I'm better, I'll make you a real handkerchief."

"What's wrong with this one?" he asks.

The seriousness in his voice combined with the furrow of his brow is enough to make her laugh, taking the hoop from his hands. "Look at it, it's awful." She points to one corner stained with a few drops of blood. "I'm can't thread a needle if my life depends on it."

"Blood is a fact of life," Blackwall says. "It's something we deal with every battle."

Conceding the point with a nod, she gestures to another corner, one with the letters BC stitched in plain font. "My initials turned out reasonably well, but you should see the fancy script Josephine can do. I'd like to learn it." She tilts her head to the side and stared down at the initials. "Eventually."

"I'm a simple man with simple tastes," he tells her and Bethroot can't help but laugh as he squeezes her ass. "I don't need a fancy script."

"I wanted to embroider the Inquisition symbol in this corner," she says, showing him the strange marking. "But it turns out the Inquisition symbol is incredibly complicated. You'd think as Inquisitor, it'd be in my power to change the symbol to something less… fussy."

"You didn't," Blackwall says with a chuckle.

"I might have made a few discreet inquiries, but I was shot down," Bethroot says with a sigh. "So I changed it to a bow and quiver. Not that you can really tell that this is."

"But-"

"And look at the border," she says. "It was supposed to be marigolds, since you've sent me a few bouquets with those and they were so lovely." She sighs, remembering just how frustrated she became trying to make each flower perfect. "But I gave up halfway through the first side. Arrows are much easier to stitch."

Blackwall takes the hoop gently from her grip before removing the handkerchief, staring at it intently. Before she could react, he kissed her hard on the lip, then cupping her cheek with his palm, still holding the handkerchief. The linen and silk thread felt cool against her skin. "My lady, I would be honored to accept this favor from you."

She blinks, sure she hasn't heard him correctly. "You really want this one?" she asks, putting her hand on top of his. "Even though it's awful?"

"When I asked for a token, Bethy, I hoped for a ribbon of your colors or a lock of hair," he said. He puts a hand on her hip and just the slightest pressure. Bethroot takes the hint at once and turns so she straddles him on the couch.

"That's what I originally thought to do," she admits. "But then I spoke to Josephine who said an appropriate favor would be a handkerchief."

She watches as he runs his thumb across the symbol in the corner. "You hate sewing and yet you made this for me."

"This one is supposed to be practice-"

"But it's perfect, don't you see?" Blackwall asks. "If you made a hundred of these they wouldn't be as perfect as this one in my hands. I could ask for no finer token." His face turns serious as Bethroot rests the palms of her hands on either side of his neck. "I can only hope I'm worthy of this gift some day."

Her heart clenches at his words. How he could possibly think himself not worthy is a mystery she _will_ solve one day. Men don't come much better than him. "You already are," she says softly, not wanting to argue the point.

Blackwall's eyes close and Bethroot takes the opportunity to kiss him lightly on the lips. "Thank you," he says, hugging her tight. "I will cherish this."

She knows she should probably make him another, one that isn't such a mess, but perhaps he's right. Bethroot did put a great deal of time and energy in that specific handkerchief and there certainly won't ever be another one like it in all of Thedas.

Instead of making a fuss, Bethroot kisses him on the nose. "You're welcome," she says.

As much as she would like to stay in Blackwall's arms, there is work that needs to get done. Josephine has runners scheduled to leave tomorrow and the letters need to be written. So Bethroot reluctantly slides off his lap and walks back to her desk.

Once seated, she glances over at Blackwall, who is tucking the handkerchief into the top of his left glove, leaving only a hint of white linen visible. All he'll need to do is look down at the crook of his arm and he'll see her favor.

Bethroot picks up her quill and starts to write, thinking that every minute of aggravation and annoyance she felt while sewing was absolutely worth it. And while she can find herself frustrated by how little information he gives her about his past, she has no doubt he is absolutely worth it as well.


	9. Brontide

He's not seen her often like this.

There's defeat in the curve of her shoulders, a tiredness she rarely lets anyone see, not even him. A few heartbeats pass before Blackwall wonders why she's sitting alone in the darkened equipment room, legs straddling a bench, arms hanging loosely at her side. Her bow and quiver are hanging on the weapons rack, lined up with the other weapons.

Without saying anything, Blackwall moves to his own weapons stand and puts away his sword and shield, then taking off his chestpiece. He and Cassandra sparred earlier today and he's hurting. A tub of ice sounds exactly what he needs, but not until he solves the mystery that's in front of him.

She makes no move as he sits behind her on the bench, placing his hands on her thighs.

"My neck hurts," Bethroot says lamely, not looking back at him, just staring at the bench in front of her.

Well, a hurt neck he can handle, Blackwall decides, as he takes off his gloves before carefully placing the tips of his fingers on either side of her neck. He starts rubbing, small smooth circles, feeling the tension she's carrying and waits for her to speak. When a few minutes pass and still she's silent, Blackwall starts to worry.

One thing he's realized about his lady in the few weeks they've been together is she likes to talk. She'll tell him about the most minute details of her day and he's never minded, enjoying the sound of her voice, grateful that he can do something, anything, for her, even if it's just the simple act of listening. It's when she doesn't speak, he feels a bit of a knot in his stomach, wondering about the things she wants to say but chooses not to.

"My lady?" he asks, moving his palms down to her shoulders, kneading the flesh with his fingertips. The words are simply an invitation to talk, telling her in his own clumsy way he wants to listen.

She makes a sudden hiss as Blackwall digs into a tender spot on her shoulder. Leaning forward, he kisses that spot, feels the cool leather of her armor against his lips. Her body changes slightly then, and even though he can't see it, he can feel the smile tugging at her mouth. "I spoke to three qunari today, for more than two hours," Bethroot says. "Standing up."

"You looked up at them for two hours?" Blackwall asks. "Maker's balls, that would hurt my neck, let alone yours."

Reaching behind her, Bethroot takes his hands and scoots back so her back is flush against his chest. He wraps his arms around her front and marvels how small she seems in his arms. And then, since she seems to be silent again, rests his chin on the top of her head.

Outside the training room, he could hear soldiers running drills and sparring, but inside, the only sounds are the two of them breathing, until Bethroot says in a voice so small he almost doesn't hear, "I miss everyone being my height."

He's not asked much about her past, not wanting to give an invitation to be asked about his own, but he's heard enough about the Carta to know she grew up surrounded by other dwarves. In Markham, he lived among humans; the elves kept to their alienage and the surface dwarves stayed more in the city proper where his family lived near the outskirts. He tries to picture himself suddenly transported to Seheron and wonders how quickly he would miss other humans.

"I miss furniture that fits me," she says. There's a weariness in her voice and Blackwall wishes he had some magic words to make it disappear. But he doesn't, so he listens. "I hate that I need a step stool to get into my own bed."

"You could probably ask for a dwarf size bed to be made," Blackwall says.

She shakes her head. "I don't want to sleep in any bed where you don't fit."

"Would you have me be a dwarf, if you could, Bethy?" he asks quietly. It's a silly question, but something compels him to ask.

"No," she says, so quickly and sounding so sure, he knows she means it. "You wouldn't be you, if you were a dwarf." Bethroot leans back against him, her eyes closed. Her voice softens as she adds, "I wouldn't change a thing about you."

His heart crumbles into pieces at her words.

He can't even begin to count the things he would change in his past, to try to make himself into a man worthy of holding Bethroot in his arms. But instead he worries and waits until the day comes when he's finally told one too many lies or when she finally put everything together and realizes the puzzle pieces simply don't fit. It's absolutely exhausting sometimes, dodging and parrying with words instead of swords.

But what choice does he have? The only alternative is to be without her and Blackwall failed miserably when he tried. So he works to keep everything straight and hope they get as much time together as possible before the hammer falls.

"Well," she says, lacing her fingers through his. There's a hint of teasing in her voice. "Maybe I'd have you snore less."

He chuckles and some of the tension disappears, leaving him feeling light as he kisses the top of Bethroot's head. "You sleep through anything," he says. "Even my snoring."

"True." She takes a breath and Blackwall can feel the muscles in her stomach constrict and the way her back presses into his chest. And as she starts to talk about the events of her day, he closes his eyes and the sounds of her voice lulls him into a sort of respite.

The consequences of his actions will still be there tomorrow. But for now, he could simply be a man, listening to his lady talk.


End file.
